


Rattlesnake Smile

by candygramme



Category: Actor RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-13
Updated: 2020-04-13
Packaged: 2021-02-23 05:36:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,282
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23639794
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/candygramme/pseuds/candygramme
Summary: Steve is fed up with Chris's bullshit and decides to take matters into his own hands.
Relationships: Steve Carlson/Christian Kane
Kudos: 6





	Rattlesnake Smile

See, the trouble with Christian is that he’s not the brightest bulb in the box. He thinks of himself as a primal force, and who’s to say that he’s wrong? He’s all about the drinking, fighting and fucking, and there are times when it all becomes a little too much for most of his pals.

Riley knows that when Chris gets on his game it’s time to back off, make himself scarce, see you later, man! Jensen has worked out a way of talking him down, gentling him out of his snit, and Jason – smart man – has taken Jensen’s lead and finally learned to do the same.

Steve, though… Steve is different. The others all love Chris, but you see, Steve actually _loves_ him, and that, right there, makes a world of difference when the fists start flying and there’s anger in the air.

Jensen’s tried his best to talk to Steve – tried to get him to put a little distance between himself and Christian, but it hasn’t worked worth a damn. All Steve does is smile that sleepy smile of his, ice-blue eyes twinkling with affection, and Jen knows that it’ll all go on same as it ever was, because Steve. Loves Chris. The end!

And Chris calls Steve a pussy sometimes, thinks of him as somehow less than strong, but the truth is that Steve ain’t weak. He’s an old soul. He’s patient, quiet, calm and utterly dependable. You might even think of him as the eye of the storm that is Christian Kane.

Steve backs Chris up when the fists start flying. There’s been more than one black eye to come out of that, and more than one split lip. Steve doesn’t count the cost, because it’s Christian Kane, and he loves Chris. He’ll stand with Chris even when Riley will shrug his shoulders and back away, and Jen will call him up and say, “Dude, what the fuck are you doing?”

So here we have the old soul, calm, quietly patient, and the freakin’ force of nature, and some folks would look at that and want to know what the fuck they see in each other. Jensen is sure that it’ll all someday end in tears, because Chris is Chris, and, well, Steve is so not.

And so Chris is riding high. He’s got himself a new series, and an album coming out, and it all goes to confirm his viewpoint that life is all about him. He’s excited about the album. It’s been a while in production, and both he and Steve have bust their butts making it work.

The label offered to launch it for them, and this is all new, because, hello, they’re being promoted. So Chris sets it all up, arranges the day, posts on his blog to invite his fans and generally feels like he’s made a damned fine job of things, but as we’ve already observed, there are times when he doesn’t quite make the cut. This is one of those times, because he’s got all his ducks in a row with the exception of one. Steve has a prior booking, and as we’ve also noted, Steve is loyal to a fault.

So it’s in vain that Chris demands that Steve drop it, change it, get someone else to play it, anything. Steve won’t be moved.

“No dice, man. I’ve had this one in my diary since November. You should’ve checked with me, before you set it all up. What were you thinking?” And there’s the crux of the matter, right there, because of course Chris wasn’t thinking, not really.

So there’s trouble in paradise. Chris glowers, smolders, but Steve stands firm, and the promo bash goes on without Steve Carlson who knows the value of fidelity and stays to play his gig. He misses Chris, misses him something fierce, but his word is his bond and that’s just how it has to be.

The album is launched, the initial sales are good, and Steve goes on tour the way he does every year. He’s got a lot of fans in Europe, and they’re always fun to visit with. By the time he gets home, Chris is in Chicago filming, so they don’t see each other for a while, and when they finally do get together again it’s to play a gig down in Nashville on a hot, sticky night towards the end of July. 

Steve arrives at the club good and early, gets the soundcheck out of the way and retires to the backstage area to await Chris’s arrival.

He waits, and there’s no Chris. After a while he calls Chris, but his call goes straight to voicemail. He follows up with a text message, but gets no reply and starts to wonder whether the fans are going to end up with the Steve Carlson show rather than the Kane show. He wonders whether he’ll be run out of town before the end of the night, and he starts to sweat, thinking that maybe Chris won’t turn up.

It’s barely twelve minutes before they’re due to take the stage when Chris appears, hazy smile and glittering eyes indicating his state of intoxication. Steve heaves a sigh of relief on the one hand, but at the same time he’s sweating, because this is Chris at his most dangerous , and he really doesn’t need that right now.

“Hey, Chris, glad you could make it,” he murmurs, reaching to pull Kane into a hug. 

Chris is a little stiff but does hug him back, body warm and vital. Then he throws down his gauntlet. “Did you think I wouldn’t?” His eyebrow is raised, and there’s a challenge in his eyes. “’M not like you.”

His words make Steve’s stomach clench, leaden and heavy. This is Chris as antagonist. He’s seen it before, directed at other, unlucky bastards, but he’s never had it turned on him. Now that it is, he doesn’t much like it.

“Course I didn’t,” he answers, smiling easy. “I trust you, man.” And then there’s no more time for conversation, just time enough for Steve to show Chris the setlist he’s put together, have Chris nod once to signal approval, and then they’re on stage.

There’s a cool crowd – lots of folks that know and love them, and as usual they get a great reception. There are always drinks around when they play, and Christian puts them away steadily as they come. Steve watches, unable to say anything while they’re on stage, but he feels like his world is spinning sideways.

It turns out to be a fantastic show. They end up playing encore after encore. When they’re done Chris hops down off the stage, heads for a girl in the audience who’s been giving him the eye and leaves Steve up there, gaping. For a moment or so, he thinks he should just bite the bullet, suck it up, walk away and live to fight another day. He almost does, but then he sees Chris lick his lips, run his index finger down the V of the girl’s low-cut top, smile a slow, fuck-me smile and hears him apologize for Steve’s intoxicated state as if _he_ ’s the one that’s been drinking. It’s too much.

Fucker!

Steve follows Chris down into the audience, which is mercifully starting to clear now the show is done. Chris has walked the girl back to lean against the stage, and he’s pressing in, all slurred vowels and honeyed words. As Steve reaches them, Chris doesn’t have a clue that retribution is about to strike.

Knowing he’ll only get one chance at this, Steve has to get it right the first time. He slides his hand up from the back of Chris’s neck into his hair as he says, “Sorry if he’s bothering you, miss. I’ll take him back now. Come along, _honey_.”

Several things happen at once. The girl’s eyes widen, and she starts to protest that Chris isn’t bothering her at all, while, at the same time, Chris is processing that sweetly uttered, ‘honey’ and is starting to turn, fist up ready to express his opinion of that. Steve’s ready too. His own fist closes around the unruly silk of Chris’s hair and twists just enough that it’s impossible for him to turn and strike without losing that handful.

“Son of a fuckin’ bitch!” snarls Kane, body taut with fury as Steve presses in close behind him. The girl flees, and Chris stumbles forward, until he’s the one pressed against the stage. Steve can’t believe he’s got this far without injury, but when you ride the tiger you have to keep a hold of his fur or get bitten, so he leans forward to shove Chris harder into the edge of the stage.

“Why don’t you shut the fuck up?” he growls, lips against Chris’s ear, so fucking mad that he could spit.

Chris is red in the face, eyes wide as if he’s so astonished that he can’t find his voice. Steve’s still got his hair tangled in his clenched fingers, and he drags it back and down, forcing Chris to drop to his knees where he remains, cheek forced against the edge of the stage and his chin up high as he glares at Steve. When he finally finds his voice, it’s a harsh, growling whisper.

“Oh, you’d better run, son. You’d better run real fast.”

Steve’s smiling, because when it all comes down to it, he’s got the upper hand and he’s damned if he’s going to let it go. He tugs at Chris’s hair again, an almost affectionate little yank, and he laughs.

“You think?” he says, cocking his head on one side as if thinking about that. “Because it seems to me that I’m the one with the upper hand here. I’m calling the shots, so let’s get down to it, shall we?”

He drops down behind Chris, spare hand slipping into the collar of Chris’s flannel overshirt. He yanks it down to elbow level and twines it around his fingers, effectively pinning Chris’s arms. Then and only then does he let go the hair that he’s been clutching since they began this little pas de deux.

Rising to his feet, Steve jerks on the shirt to indicate that Chris should do so too. There’s a moment when he thinks that it’s not going to happen, and then Chris gives a long-suffering sigh and gets up.

Silently congratulating himself on making it this far, Steve manhandles his furious bandmate around and up the stairs back onto the stage. “You and me, Chris, we’re going to have a heart to heart, but we’re not going to get into it right now.”

Chris is swearing constantly, a blistering tirade of language that’s likely to take the skin of Steve’s ears if it goes on unchecked. Steve moves in again, pressing forward until he’s got Chris sandwiched between the rough, dusty plaster of the back wall and his body. Chris is radiating heat, and Steve’s crammed against him. He approaches his lips to Chris’s ear and growls, “Can it, Chris, or, so help me, I’ll fuck you up so badly…” And then he freezes.

He freezes because he’s hard. He’s pressed up against Chris’s ass, and, save for two pairs of denims, his cock would be riding the cleft between Chris’s buttocks. It feels good.

He realizes at the same time as Chris does, and he knows that Chris has, because all of a sudden the stream of obscenities ceases, and Chris says in a very soft voice, “Well now, that’s different.”

Steve’s not sure what to think – whether to smack the bastard or press in harder. He lets go of Chris’s shirt and steps back on one foot to separate the two of them. Chris whips around, snake fast, trying to struggle his hands free. Steve lunges forward again, pressing Chris back, smacking his head against the wall and trapping his arms behind him. He’s still hard, rock hard, and when he leans in hard against his companion he suddenly finds out that Chris is too.

There have been times when he and Steve have argued, but it’s never been like this before. Chris’s eyes have turned hazy again, and he suddenly smirks, challenging and pushing his hips against Steve. “Gonna try and pin me down, Steve? Gonna try and _master_ me?” His voice is breathy, hoarse, and there’s more black than blue in those eyes of his. “Well, go on, fucker,” he snarls, and he licks his lips. 

Suddenly the air is too thick for Steve to breathe, and he’s beyond his limits, past patience, filled with a single, simple, urgent thought. _Mine_

“Shut up,” he says again, and his hands come up unbidden to fist themselves in the fabric of Chris’s ratty T-shirt. Chris laughs once, before he’s jerked forward into a contact that’s more of a bite than a kiss.

Teeth clash, and there’s blood from somewhere, sharp and acidic on his tongue, but Chris   
isn’t fighting him, not fighting at all. Steve’s had more than his fair share of the ladies. He’s hot, and he’s talented, and there’s never been a shortage of women that want him, but this is different. This isn’t tender for a start. It isn’t gentle, and it sure as fuck isn’t courteous. It’s desperate is what it is. His vision’s tinged with red, and he’s trembling, goddamn shudders wracking him as he mauls Chris’s mouth.

And Chris is growling, purring like a fucking cat as if he wants this as much as Steve does. He finally works his hands loose from the twists and turns of fabric they’ve been caught in, and his shirt falls to the ground as he struggles his arms free, wraps them around Steve’s back and melts – just fucking gives it up.

Chris’s body is pressing in against him; Chris’s arms are taut around his waist, and Steve’s got himself an armful of good ol’ boy. He’s not absolutely sure what to do with that, but it’s okay. He’s never been one to pass up a challenge, so he concentrates for a minute, succeeds in releasing his death grip on Chris’s shirt, brings his hand around to cup Chris’s face and keeps right on kissing him, the kisses turning sloppy now as their mouths start to learn each other.

He’s not sure how it happened, but he’s definitely all for it as he ravages Chris’s mouth, ungentle and desperate to sear himself onto Chris’s soul. 

There’s a sound from the auditorium behind them, and the club owner can be heard advancing towards the stage. Steve steps back, suddenly nervous, and Chris lets loose a little sound of protest. 

“Get the equipment packed,” growls Steve, his voice harsh with the need for contact. Chris doesn’t answer, he just nods and goes to do as he’s told, leaving Steve to pack his guitar back into its case. 

The owner comes to the edge of the stage with a couple of beers. He tells them how happy he is with the show and asks if they’ll come back for the festival in September. Chris is uncharacteristically silent, looking to Steve for an answer. “I think Chris is filming in Chicago come September,” he says at length. “We’ll have to make sure that the gig doesn’t clash with that.” When he sees Chris nod, he feels a heated fluttering low in his belly and can’t wait to get out of there.

It doesn’t take them long to get their gear together, and Steve’s about to call a cab so he can get to his hotel. Chris looks at him, and there’s a message in his eyes that Steve hasn’t ever seen before. “You don’t wanna come back with me?” he asks, head ducking in a most un-Chris-like way. 

“Sure I do, if it’s okay.” Steve can still feel that inner glow, pool of warm, liquid want tingling down in his groin, and he follows Chris out into the hot, sticky night, dumps his guitar in the back of Chris’s pickup and then turns to shove its owner up against the side. “Gimme your keys, Chris.”

“What the fuck?” He can hear in Chris’s sudden snarl that his words aren’t welcome, but c’est la vie. He’s got something here, and he wants to keep it, this fine control over his other half. He grins and shoves Chris. 

“You heard! Gimme your fucking keys. You’ve been drinking all night, and I want to live, thank you very much.” Steve puts his arm up against Chris’s neck and waits, and he’s not as surprised as he might have been when Chris pulls the keys from his pocket and drops them into Steve’s hand.

Steve knows the way to Chris’s house – none better, and it doesn’t take him long to ferry them home. Chris grumbles all the way, softly mumbled complaints that Steve ignores, knowing that it’s all piss and wind, and that Chris’ll shut up as soon as he gets his hands on him.

It’s not a long drive, and he’s sufficiently in control to get there without too much discomfort, although his stomach is jittery and his dick is punching a hole through his elderly jeans. Chris has a little bungalow, and it’s out of town, set back from the road and masked by trees. As Steve turns the little old truck into the driveway, Chris finally falls silent. When Steve sneaks a sidelong peek at him from the corner of his eye, he sees Chris biting his lip, face bleached white in the moonlight, eyes fixed on him. It makes him shiver.

He climbs out of the cab and saunters around to lean against the tailgate, waiting for Chris. When Chris finally comes around to join him, he’s ready. He reaches out, grips Chris’s shirt collar and hauls him in, and it’s getting easier every time he does it. Chris’s intake of breath fizzes along his skin like summer lightning, and he feels his power over the other man like a punch in the gut.

He yanks on Chris’s shirt, twists his fingers into the slack and his mouth comes down on Chris’s, and he thinks to himself, _Yes, this is how it has to be. This is what I’ve been getting wrong._

And then he’s not capable of thinking clearly any more, because he’s kissing, biting, _fucking mauling_ Chris, shoving him back against the truck so that the air explodes from Chris’s lungs. He can hear needy moans and whimpers, knows that there will be bruises and wants to see them. With a grunt, he rips Chris’s T-shirt, yanks it back and exposes the broad chest to his mouth, his teeth, his nails. 

Chris smells salty, his sweat-slicked torso gleaming pale under the white moon, and Steve imagines marking that delectable expanse, carving his name just so over Chris’s heart. He bites into one firm pectoral, worries at the thick muscle between his teeth and feels Chris buck against him. “Clothes… off!” he says, not raising his head, and Chris gasps, then moves to start unfastening his disreputable jeans.

He shoves them down over powerful thighs, shuffles his feet to step out of them without looking, and then he’s naked, standing there on the dusty, rutted driveway, body a silvered sculpture in the moonlight. Stepping back to admire it, Steve feels himself swelling inside his skin ‘til he’s bursting, wanting, his heart pounding.

“Turn around.” He can’t believe how calm he sounds. He can’t believe how forbearing he is, and how much he wants to make this moment last.

Chris looks at him from desire-drugged eyes and turns to face the truck without a word. Steve looks and looks, taking in the dark tan of his back, and the paler skin of his buttocks. He reaches to run his hand down from his shoulder. There’s a tattoo on Chris’s left leg. It’s a winged eagle, and Steve drops to his knees so that he can inspect it. He’s never noticed it before. There’s a smaller one on his other leg, a wolf with its face turned up towards the moon. Steve wants to see Chris turn his face up and howl like that while the moon is full. Bending forward, be nuzzles into the cleft between Chris’s buttocks, bites, feels Chris buck and hears the muttered curse, and it’s time.

He rises to his feet, pressing in, crowding Chris as he bends to lick then bite at his neck. “Spread ‘em,” he says, voice harsher than he intends. Chris gasps, but he doesn’t move until Steve kicks his feet apart.

“Jesus, Steve…” Chris is whining, and Steve pulls back, opens his pants enough so that he can get his cock out, rock hard and tingling and starts to press himself in, home between those firm, round buttocks. He’s sticky with sweat and pre-cum, but it’s not enough. He reaches into the back of the truck, finds the oil that’s there and lets out a whoop as he pulls it out from under the mess of PA equipment. 

Oil’s oil, and Chris has Valvoline, and if that’s good enough for his baby’s engine, then Steve figures that it’s going to be good enough for Chris’s engine too. He unscrews the cap and pours some into his hand. It’s sticky and thick and a little less oily than he thought it would be, but he rubs it, warms it, reaches down and slicks Chris with it, and then goes for it, oily, sticky hands on Chris’s hips leaving bruises as he rams home.

Chris does throw his back and howl as he’s penetrated. So does Steve, voice raised loud and wild in a scream that’s partly triumph and partly need. Chris is hot and tight, and he’s grinding back into Steve, and holy fuck but this isn’t going to last.

It isn’t going to last, and he can’t seem to keep it slow, keep it smooth. He bites his lip and fucks into Chris, fucks him hard and fast, hips snapping as the sweat trickles down his spine.

It can’t last. He knows it in his bones, and his body is close to the flashpoint. He can hear Chris cursing, begging, and he licks his palm as he reaches around to take hold of Chris’s cock, pulls on it, feels the swell under his fingers, feels that Chris’s balls are drawn up tight to its base and squeezes as he slides his hand over it.

“Oh, god, fuck!” Chris is yelling now, but his vocabulary has somehow reduced itself to the simple litany of, ‘fuck, fuck, fuck.” So Steve does. He fucks, and he’s coming, and the night is electric, his whole body melting as he pours himself away, pumping his essence into Chris.

He’s done, and his hand is still moving on Chris. He feels Chris go stiff, arch and growl as if even the word ‘fuck’ is beyond him. It doesn’t take more than a couple more tugs before Chris is giving it up for him, spattering his hand, the truck and his belly with the thick white evidence of his orgasm.

Collapsing forward to lay his cheek along Chris’s broad shoulders, Steve gasps, pants, tries to recover, tries to stay inside of Chris for one more moment even as he feels himself slipping out, becoming separate once again. 

Finally he’s able to move, and he moves back, away from Chris, allowing him to turn around and face him. “You okay?” he asks, wondering if he’ll be called to account for his actions.

“Fuck!” And the expletive makes Steve laugh, because Chris is nothing if not consistent. “Didn’t know you had it in you, Steve, my man.”

“I didn’t.” And Steve’s laughing hard now. “You had it in you!”

And Chris is stooping to gather his clothes together, slinging them nonchalantly over his shoulder as he turns towards the house. He turns back, one eyebrow arched. “Bad joke, son. I’ll make you suffer for that one. You coming with?” he asks, and Steve swears to God that there’s hope in Chris’s eyes. “We’re Team Kane. Can’t have my boy stayin’ in no hotel.”

And as Steve reaches into the truck to grab his precious guitar and follow Chris, he reflects that Jason, Jensen and Riley and the rest of them all know how to handle Chris, but none of them, not one of them really knows Steve Carlson, and especially not the way that Chris does now.

So Steve follows Chris in, watching the play of muscle beneath smooth skin, seeing the way Chris’s ass moves, he finally embraces a profound truth, and that is simply that while Chris may be the spirit boy, and a force of nature, he, Steve Carlson is the man that can sing the storm to rest, and that’s just fine with him.

~~~

So they’re in the bar at L’Scorpion, and someone says something to Chris. Riley doesn’t hear quite what it is, but he knows enough to start looking around for someplace else to be. Chris is flushing in that way that he does when he’s starting to get mad enough to take a swing.

And then Steve just smiles lazily, stretches, and says softly, “Chris?”

And Chris turns back to Steve, flushes and smiles, goes to stand beside him and put his hand on Steve’s shoulder, fingers rubbing gently in a way that’s new – new to Riley anyway. He gapes and makes a note to tell Jason when he comes down off the stage.

And that’s it; that’s all, except for the smile on Steve’s face, because to Steve, that will never be all.


End file.
